


like a wealthy woman's neck

by sarcangel



Series: tumblr ficlets [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, sparkly dodgers costume
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: blame it on the sparkly dodgers' costume





	like a wealthy woman's neck

Niall’s still awake when Harry makes it through the door at three in the morning. His fucking face is throbbing, it’s still hard to catch more than a few hours of sleep at a time. There’s a pattern to it: take meds, meds kick in, sleep arrives. It’s a pattern he knows well. He’s probably a quarter hour out from the second step right now, laid in bed, counting the throbbing of his face in time with his heart. There’s no point in even watching tv - he’s tried, but he’s just too miserable.

In the quiet of his bedroom, the little bell that chimes when the front gate is activated is loud, gratingly cheerful. He sits up, tries to sort himself out. For what fucking purpose, who knows? It's late, Harry’s been out all night, at some Halloween party he probably couldn’t have dragged Niall to even in perfect health. There’s no reason he’ll stop by Niall’s room; he’ll be lucky to make it to his own bed, probably. It’s happened a time or two that he’s found Harry sleeping on the sofa, once even on the rug in front of the fireplace.

It’s not quite comfortable yet, their arrangement. The parts that used to slot together so easily have grown up some, Niall’s grown up some, and it’s hard to have a person in his space all the time. And Harry takes up space, is the thing: physical space, mental space, astral space. But Harry suggested ( _Hey, Nialler, gonna be in LA for a stretch. Wouldn’t it be great if I stayed at yours like old times?_ ) and Niall found himself offering. Whatever reasons Harry’s got for not staying at his own house are probably more complicated than, _it’s on the market_. But he can wait for the story, Harry will tell him if he’s ever ready. It’s been an odd comfort, anyway, having Harry around after his surgery. Someone who knows when to push it and when to leave him alone, when a distraction is welcome and when he’s just hurting and crabby and wants to be a dickhead.

Uneven footsteps lurch up the stairs, halting at the top. Lying still, Niall waits for the telltale squeak of the floorboards outside his door. That’s one of the beauties of living in an old house, there’s no chance of someone sneaking up the stairs in the middle of the night. But there’s no creak, just his aching chest - he’s been holding his breath, like an absolute idiot.

“Get a grip,” he mutters, falling back down onto the pillow.

There’s a light knock on the door, then. Harry doesn’t actually wait for Niall to answer, he just breezes through, like the knock itself was fair warning. Suppose it probably was, God knows Harry’s seen him in every possible form of indisposed at this point in their lives.

Harry’s decked out in his costume, still, glittery and splendid, hair going every which way, like it does when he’s been out all night - and when he wakes up, or is home from yoga, or has been in the pool. His pink glasses are shoved up on top of his head, and his eyes are soft like they get when he’s been drinking, and his costume trousers are just tight enough across his thighs that Niall couldn’t not notice, earlier, couldn’t not spend some time this evening remembering it. It’s not always useful, that memory of his.

“Hey,” Harry whispers, as if Niall’s not laying there, eyes wide open, staring at him in the doorway.

“Hey,” Niall whispers back, since time _and_ memory have told him enough that he’s dumb, a dumb person who is specifically dumb for _this_ person, who makes him even dumber. “Why are we whispering?”

It’s worth it to see Harry’s smile, loose and careless and wide. “Shove over,” he says, walking towards the bed.

Niall groans, but it’s a lie; he’ll move over, and Harry knows it. There’s a pattern to it: protest, do it anyway, swoopy heart. Another pattern he knows well.

“How was the party?” he asks, moving over to the far side of the mattress.

“Good. It was fun.” Harry takes his time folding the blanket back and crawling underneath. Niall rolls his eyes; if he’s about to sit through another lecture about the air conditioning, he can’t be responsible for his own reaction. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Niall, not everyone’s ridiculously hot all the time.”

Harry slides across the mattress, sighing as he moves into Niall’s warm spot. The sequins on his trousers are scratchy against the side of Niall’s leg. It’s not unpleasant, but it activates all of his nerve endings at once, apparently. He fights the urge to squirm.

“Surprised you’re still awake, though. Hurting?” Harry strokes a finger over Niall’s cheek, feather-light, making sympathetic eyes. He has to look away; it’s a dangerous gaze, done his head in often enough.

“Yeah. Drugs should kick in anytime. But, you know. It sucks, nothing you can do about it.” He shrugs against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

Harry makes a noise, pushes himself closer. “Missed you tonight.”

“Sure you did.”

“I did, fucker.” Harry sits up, suddenly, and starts unbuttoning the Dodgers jersey.

“Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you.”

“I will, thanks.” He sticks out his tongue, and pulls the jersey open to show Niall the shirt underneath. “Wore the Stones’ shirt you found me, last summer, even. Since you couldn’t come.”

“Missed you, too,” Niall says. It’s true and sincere, and he doesn’t bother to qualify it with anything. The painkillers start to kick in, and he closes his eyes in relief. The sheets rustle as Harry moves - and there’s his finger again, light as a wing, brushing against Niall’s mouth this time, tracing the swell of his lower lip. He pushes his eyes open.

“What -”

Harry swipes his tongue out, again, licking his lips, hand lingering on the side of Niall’s face like he’s forgotten what he was even doing. The painkillers are crawling through him, making everything soft; he’s watching Harry’s mouth, he realizes. It’s soft and pink and they’ve been on the precipice for a while, but nothing’s happened, again, since the one time near the end of tour. But Harry’s watching him watching Harry’s mouth, and the corners of it are starting to turn up.

“Like what you see, Nialler?”

“Shut up,” Niall says, lips curving back at him.

Then Harry’s leaning down, and the sequins on his top catch the light, and there’s that mouth again, skimming over his so soft and careful, swallowing his sigh before pulling back.

“You’re drunk,” Niall says, leaning further into Harry’s hand.

“I had a few,” Harry agrees. “Got drunk on -”

“Jesus, don’t,” he laughs too loud; it hurts his face.

“Sorry,” Harry says, smoothing the wince away. “Sorry.  I’ll be good, now.”

“You’re always good,” Niall says. “That’s half the problem. Just - get down here.” He tugs him down. Sleep is coming fast, a nice warm train to carry him away.

“I’ll stay, if you want,” Harry offers.

“Yeah.  Only if…” he loses it in a yawn.

“If?”

“Off.  Scratchy,” he murmurs, rubbing a hand down Harry’s chest. His eyes are heavy now, too heavy to keep open. Harry’s chuckle is a low vibration against his cheek, the Rolling Stones t-shirt is smooth and warm and smells incredible.

“Better?” Harry asks, spreading the duvet out over them.

“Mmmm,” he gets out. And then he’s out, the train has left the station.  

When he wakes up a few hours later, mouth dry from the meds, Harry’s still there - and it’s a miracle, even if it’s a tiny one, but he just rolls over and goes back to sleep.

[come say hi on tumblr](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/179503687608/nialls-still-awake-when-harry-makes-it-through) :)


End file.
